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Poetry
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a poem by Bradley Wendell Compton
there's
a subtle layer
that permeates
through the surfaces
and boundaries
like plasma
making the inside
and outside
seem vague
reaching
with careful hands
I stand back
with eyes
to the side
and touch
the delicate rapture
that fires
the iron and coal
till the hammer
strikes down
with definite precision
molding me
into something
transient and new
like a vision
dancing
on the mercurial focus
of my lucid mind
From the book Ophelia Speaks by Sara Shandler:
A Question for Peter
By Anonymous, 16, from a small town in the Northeast
Peter said:
here are my scars,
not to impress but these pinkish folds of flesh
are not merely desecration of the body,
they are more.
He said: Here is my poetry,
may it trigger you to deal with your own scars.
So I, who suffers from wounds long neglected
and never taken seriously,
gaze at them with a derision
I save for my own foolish theatrics.
Bitter beads of blood
nestle in the shallow white valleys
created by deliberate slashes.
A thin razor ripped from its blue plastic casing
so that I might draw forth this blood
that washes my legs, cleansing them
of the dirt encrusted under my skin.
"Poetry?" What is more poetic
than pain? And after pain:
Desire, Blood, and Shame.
These rivulets of red are my poems.
They slide across my thighs
each a thought expressed in the only way
left to me, now that the words are gone.
There is no better way to say this.
These actions are my excuses.
I am unable to be perfection (thin, intellectual, sexy)
but this--
to slice, cut, mutilate, and hurt --
this is easy.
I said:
These are my scars Peter,
must you subject them to the
brutal scrutiny of words,
or shall you be content in knowing
of their origin?
I am not content.
The tightened lines
crisscross my skin, a raw web of arcane symbols
layered one upon the next --
a mystical bind.
They pull at the smoothness
of youthful skin, marring the soft surface.
I have control of my body.
The seduction of the razor is my only frailty,
the pain of the cut the only passion unsuppressed.
The blade bites deep and hard, readily accepting the shrine
I have offered it without reservation.
They said: Sick.
Such behavior will not be condoned
nor will it be understood.
Would they still speak in such tones
if they knew the power this brings me?
The stinging is no more than
physical weakness
overcome it, you are free.
I learned my lessons well.
I ate from the dishes they placed in front of me.
I listened to the wisdom they had passed
from generation to generation.
I trusted.
They sent me to my slaughter,
to die and be punished
by the only person who really could--
Myself
They knew better than I did.
I could not foresee the endless nights alone
languishing in pity and self-inflicted misery.
My actions are motivated by fear,
like the young girl who lies unmoving
on the bed, paralyzed by the knowledge
there might be worse things than what has already taken place.
her heart beating so quickly
a tiny hummingbird locked insider her chest,
unable to pause.
How do my scars compare with yours Peter?
Am I dealing with them?
Don't come near me,
Don't try to heal me,
I am all I can be.
These are my scars
Peter.
I am not proud of them,
I do not tell tales to impress,
these are not myths of battles passed,
I have no enemies but myself.
These words are written in blood--
Do you understand that?
I will pay a dear price
For their honesty and truth,
So don't begrudge me my moment
of melodramatic freedom.
who are you to take away my night.
Off the cool blue sea, you destroy my life.
For the darkness of night is all that protects me
from all that is not quit right.
Encased in darkness, I can sit alone from
all the pain, sorrow and misery
of life in the world of light.
For with out the night I am helpless
against all the sorrow of the dawning light.
Another day has come and robbed me of my night,
and the stars that twinkle with their dim little light,
Leaving me alone with the painful light.
If all goes right I may just live to see
at least one more night.
To share another's pain in the most intimate way
In the closest of relationships
Has taught me sadness
To walk hand in hand with another soul
Until no longer needed
Has taught me strength
To listen when no other ears could or would
To stories almost too surreal to be heard
Has taught me patience
To be there for another
Too embarrassed to be there for herself
Has taught me to be gentle
To be a shelter
In a raging storm
Has taught me to be tough
To know that I participated in the difference
In a woman's life
Has made all the difference.
Copyright 1999, Janice Wilson
Daddy's Dirty Little Secret by Theresa Fortier
Did you think you would rest in peace? You've been caught and I'm the one who caught you. The scent from a left-over bottle of Old Spice in the medicine cabinet took me back up those stairs to that room, on that bed. The child screamed when she saw you beneath her She screams when tormenting memories give her back to you. A perverted encounter between a father and his daughter. Did I deserve to die inside?
How do I silence the child's cries? It's time for her eyes to close. She's tired of being afraid, of being angry, of keeping her daddy's dirty little secret. You betrayed a sacred trust. But you trusted me - the child. Your child. Did you think I wouldn't betray you? Well your secret has escaped. A child molester. A coward. It was not the child's fault. It was not my fault.
I took her back one last time, up those stairs, to that room. You called her to the bed and I screamed, "No! You will not touch me again! You're dead and your death is justified." I never mourned. I never prayed for your soul. But I will forgive you. For my sake not yours. I need peace.
The child's cried have silenced. Her eyes have finally closed. She has drifted off to sleep. You can't hurt me anymore.
The Club, a poem by Mitsuye Yamada 1989
He beat me with the hem of a kimino worn by a Japanese woman this prized painted wooden statue carved to perfection in Japan or maybe Hong Kong.
She was usually on display in our living room atop his bookshelf among his other oversea treasures I was never to touch. She posed there most of the day her head tilted her chin resting lightly on the white pointed fingertips on her right hand her black hair piled high on her head her long slim neck bared to her shoulders. An invisible hand under the full sleeve clasped her kimono close to her body its hem flared gracefully around her feet.
That hem made fluted red marks on these freckled arms my shoulders my back.
That head inside his fist made camel bumps on his knuckles. I prayed for her that her pencil thin neck would not snap or his rage would be unendurable. She held fast for me didn't even chip or crack.
One day, we were talking as we often did the morning after. Well, my sloe-eyed beauty, I said have you served him enough? I dared to pick her up with one hand I held her gently by the flowing robe around her slender legs. She felt lighter than I had imagined. I stroked her cold thighs with the tips of my fingers and felt a slight tremor.
I carried her into the kitchen and wrapped her in two sheets of paper towels We're leaving I whispered you and I together.
I placed her between my clothes in my packed suitcase. That is how we left him forever.
